


Evidence

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deductions, Friendship/Love, M/M, Nosy Men, signs of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 00:50:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15897540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Another transition to love story. Mycroft is a nosy man...





	Evidence

He was a nosy man. Sherlock always said Mycroft was only living up to his own proboscis—long, slightly drooping, prominent. He himself tried to console himself that he was a professional snoop, and his curiosity merely a hallmark of his calling.

He knew better. Yes, he was nosy, but not everything interested him equally—and the things that most interested him were not always justified by professionalism. Take DCI Greg Lestrade, for example…

“’E’s in a meetin’,” DI Sally Donovan said, wary-eyed at the intrusion of “The Freak’s Toff Blud.” Mycroft didn’t send her around the bend quite the way Sherlock did—but she didn’t trust either of them farther than she could throw the London Eye. Mycroft, with his natty suits and tight little smiles set off her alarms. He was…dangerous. Devious.

If she had her way she would not put up with him. But—

“Do you have an appointment with the Chief?”

“More an established understanding,” Mycroft said, eyes hooded and smirk firmly in place. “Rather like that he has with Sherlock, only in reverse. When I learn of some interesting…work…I let him know.”

“Is that toff for ‘get ‘is arse in trouble’?” She made no effort to sound welcoming or trusting.

Mycroft considered her, then said, quietly. “Perhaps. In which case you might note I’ve got ‘ ‘is arse’ out of trouble every time up until now, or he’d not be ‘the Chief’ nor would he be entrenched in a meeting.” When she blinked and looked away—an indirect surrender to his intended point—he said, smooth as a serpent, “I’ll just wait for him in his office.” He allowed his voice to make the none-too-gentle suggestion that civilized officers who hoped for further advancement over the years did not leave ‘toffs’ like Mycroft standing around in the Special Crimes bullpen without so much as a chair to sit their bums on or a cup of tea to console them for the wait. Without waiting for permission he turned the knob of Greg’s miserable excuse for an office, and went directly in. He took the time to lower the blinds, his cold blue eyes staring into her brown, daring her to reprimand him.

She didn’t. There were many things she did not know about Mycroft Holmes, but The Freak and the Chief and that weird little doctor had all convinced her that she should feel grateful for her ignorance—and do everything she could to maintain it. Curiosity killed the copper…

Mycroft, though, thrived on the stuff.

Some of it he could deduce—a slow, lingering, fascinated process he chose to luxuriate in.

Nicotine patches *and* a pack of B&H silver. So—struggling with cigarettes again. (He ignored the faint warmth at the thought that the man shared his own failure to fully, completely quit—backsliding in times of stress. A connection…)

Three cases outstanding, though one was clearly almost completed—the assailant identified, the painstaking assembly of a case built. One more still in the running-around stages. (I could solve it for him, he thought, tempted. Always tempted. But that was Sherlock’s “mansion.” His role was distant, officious bureaucrat, of no worth on his own…)

Ex-wife communicating with him. Daughter in college—bills. Unfortunate, judging by the coffee spill, the smudge of sausage-roll grease, the crumpled edge of the paper, the angry, jagged note taken in the bottom margin.

Money trouble again—and, yes, over there the bookie’s ticket balled tight, tossed at the bin—and missing. Without pause he found himself reckoning all he knew of Lestrade’s finances, coming up with the kind of answer that worried Internal Affairs in not only NSY, but MI5 and MI6. No one likes a cop in debt—there are too many ways of trying to solve that problem. Lestrade wasn’t too deep in yet. But something had to be thrown his way soon, to help him haul himself out of deep water. And…God. He had to quit the ponies. Or let Mycroft teach him how to handicap them properly to stanch the steady seep of losses.

No, he reminded himself. Not him. Perhaps Sherlock could be convinced to take it in hand?

God, who’d let Sherlock teach them how to handicap the gee-gees? Well—Dr. Watson, of course. Molly. But, no—not Lestrade. Who else could he aim at his…

Associate.

Colleague.

Whatever. Who could teach Lestrade how to stop pouring his limited funds into the pockets of London’s bookies?

(You could, temptation whispered. You could, if he’d let you…if he thinks of you beyond the minutes it takes to work through a problem with Sherlock, or an assignment from MI5… You could.)

He can imagine it—one of their commonplace lunches, meeting in some little pub, Mycroft out of his finest suits and instead in the slightly fuzzed, worn brown hounds-tooth of a failing accountant, Lestrade in the casual jeans and polo-neck team shirt with West Ham’s logo. They would hunch together over the table, pints at their elbows, racing papers and forms scattered between them, Mycroft scratching figures with a mechanical pencil and plugging numbers into a calculator with the eraser end.

Their hands would brush…

Their eyes would meet.

Lestrade would suggest hopefully that what he really needed was a pal to come around with him all the time, keep him from doing anything stupid.

Mycroft stilled the sudden rush of blood, the catch of breath.

He had no sign that Lestrade thought twice of him in any role but “handler.”

And not in a dirty way. Business. Spy business. Nothing more.

He continued the tally, ripping details of Lestrade’s daily life from the evidence of his shabby office. Meals eaten, paracetamol guzzled down, antacids, the toothbrush and mouthwash that suggested working through the night and brushing his teeth in the gents in the morning—and forgetting to put the evidence away because the day’s rush caught up with him. A suit hung up on the back of the office door, the cheap drycleaner’s ticket still hanging from staples in the thin plastic wrap: a court case coming up, with Lestrade in the witness stand. A worn duffle and a pair of trainers with a thin coat of dust on them—good intentions to do some running on lunchbreak or after work, overcome by pressure and exhaustion.

A life Mycroft could see so many ways to ease, so many burdens he could lighten without even the expenditure of a gesture. He could help.

He could be…kind.

He had no place. No right.

He was a stranger to this man. The only reason Lestrade didn’t feel like a stranger to him, in return, was years and years of slowly accumulating observations and deductions. The open smile—the weary stretch—the honorable courage. The loyalty. The bashful dismay at being complimented. The mischievous sparkle when the two of them came up with a way of containing Sherlock, or of managing a neat bit of spy work.

Lestrade felt like his dearest, oldest friend—but there was no reason to think he felt the same way about Mycroft.

And now Mycroft was running out of the easy prey—the evidence just waiting for his eye to land. One thing left before descending to emptying the trash bins or riffling the drawers: Lestrade had left his phone behind.

No. No, no, no. Shame, Mycroft! Private—not yours to pry into. But his fingers had already swept the little bar from the desk top, his mind already guessing the password. (He’d used it before—tsk-tsk. 3e5T 8am_4eva8. Bad leetcode—but it popped the phone’s files, and Mycroft was racing through, pictures first because a picture offers so much so very fast.

And there…two files in, under a second lock…

Wik3 (Mike?)

His own face.

Oh.

His own body—when had Lestrade taken that picture? And—did he really look like that? Long and lean, legs crossed cocky and stroppy, leaning on his umbrella, looking…posh. Stylish. Quite full of himself, but in a good way—mischief in his eye and a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. Who saw him that way?

And that one—a bust shot, shoulders and head, huddled over paperwork. (Yes—that’s right—solving the code in the Bismallah case…) Such a kindly photo—he looked almost tender. Pensive. He was focused on the task at hand, the light casting dramatic but kindly shadows over his face. He looked almost elfin—alien and beautiful, like Sherlock.

And yes—there, a shot with Sherlock, one of their few fond moments, heads back, laughing together.

Who saw him like this?

Who took those pictures?

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You know who took them. The question is…why?

Why?

(He knew. He just couldn’t bear thinking it, in case he was wrong…)

The sound behind him—someone coming into the Special Crimes bullpen. Lestrade. Logic dictated…

He almost put the phone back, fingers quick and practiced, trained to gather in and replace at light speed. (He could pick pockets better than Sherlock. His life still depended on gathering in and replacing, before anyone knew he had the information firm and secure.) Then---

Courage gripped him. But he was a brave man, though few outside his own field acknowledged it, or even knew. He waited, phone in hand, a photo of himself smiling out in sudden, brilliant welcome to the photographer…

The door opened, and Lestrade came in.

Mycroft’s heart thundered as he waited for his fellow spy to spot the obvious. Yes—there it was. The flick of the eyes, the bloom of recognition. The sudden blush and look away…

“I found these,” Mycroft said, voice shakier than he’d expected.

Lestrade glanced back, clearly contemplating a tantrum to cover the embarrassment and dismay.

“It’s all right,” Mycroft cut in, quickly, and then, still quickly. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’m…nosy.”

“Quite,” Lestrade quipped, and grinned a crooked grin, tapping his nose.

Mycroft gave a soft chuckle of agreement. “Quite. A professional failing.”

“A personal habit,” Lestrade corrected, tart but not accusing.

“Well. Yes. That, too.”

“And?”

Mycroft blushed, then. He forced himself to turn the phone directly to Lestrade, photo showing. “Why?”

Lestrade couldn’t meet his eye. “You know me. Shutter bug.”

“But—why? Why me?”

“If I said the camera loves you, would you accept it?”

Before he could think, the worlds slipped out. “I think it’s more honest to say the photographer loves me. The camera—not so much.”

It hung between them. Then Lestrade shrugged, ruefully. “You don’t have to do anything about it. Never did. Never will. Just—ignore it.”

Mycroft licked his lips, and all the things he’d observed that day spun around his mind, like cards in Alice’s dream of Wonderland. At the center were the pictures—and the thought of two men in a pub, race papers and forms spread around them, pints at their elbows. Together.

“You need help handicapping the gee-gees,” he said.

“What?”

“I can help. It’s rather my division. Information analysis. Let me…help?” He met Lestrade’s eyes, wondering if the other man saw how carefully he held the little phone, filled with such kind, loving pictures of him. “Please?”

Their eyes locked, then, and the seconds played out, tense and alive, charged with years of unstated affections, and silent longings. Lestrade cautiously nodded.

“I suppose we could do that.”

“Over dinner tonight at the Ascot Hat?”

Lestrade nodded.

Mycroft smiled, then, heart pattering and rushing like water in a spring melt. “I’d like that.”

“Me, too.”

It was a good four minutes before the two men even remembered that Mycroft was there on business, or sorted it out. And when Mycroft left, he said, softly, “Could you email me a copy of the one I showed you? That picture?”

Lestrade nodded, then asked, “Why?”

Mycroft said, then, with a radiant smile, “Because. Now when I feel like this, I can see what it looks like on me. I never knew, before.”

Lestrade’s smile matched Mycroft’s. “Sure thing. I…hope you’ll feel that way a lot, from now on.”

“I think I will.” Mycroft left, then, umbrella swinging, long legs moving as freely as a dancer’s.

Donovan, watching, huffed. Damn. The Chief *would* go and fall for a Holmes.

Life just wasn’t fair.

But she couldn’t put her heart into it. Not when she heard the Chief whistling under his breath—something happy from the seventies, she had no idea what, but it made her want to disco.

She’d accept even the Freak’s Toff Blud if it made the Chief that happy. Not that it was any of Donovan’s business. But she was a nosy woman, by profession and by personal calling, and there was no way she was missing clear signs like that.


End file.
